


Pull The Trigger

by themyows



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Foreplay, Guns, M/M, Michael's special ability, Wounds, half-assed smex, no not in a sexual way, nobody dies ok, not anything too graphic i promise, trevor's a kinky bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themyows/pseuds/themyows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael accidentally shoots Trevor. Which leads to...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull The Trigger

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. Sue me. Also there might be some grammatical/spelling errors, so I apologize in advance.

Michael had always been talented with a gun.  
  
Unusually talented; his headshots were so precise that he easily could pick out the people he'd killed from the ones Trevor and Franklin had during jobs. Michael couldn't even remember the last time he'd shot anybody below the face; his aim was just too fucking good.  
  
It seemed as if he'd been born a marksman–a natural _murderer_.  
  
The fact that he was so hotheaded–that he was set off by the simplest of things–didn't really help his cause.

Short-tempered plus excellent marksmanship?

Answer: sociopath.  
  
He was a fucking sociopath.  
  
He knew it, deep _deep_ down. As much as he'd deny it during therapy sessions, a bitter voice in the back of his head often screamed otherwise. It was like it'd been carved into his skull.  
  
When Michael was mad, he was fucking mad. Sometimes, he'd rage worse than Trevor, who was a diagnosed cannibalistic psychopath. Michael could beat people to a bloody pulp; he could shoot their brains out in one shot even better.  
  
Michael shot to kill. He could never do so just to injure because his body went for that little gap between the eyes out of reflex.  
  
He remembered messing up an entire heist back in North Yankton simply because he'd been too accurate with the gun. They needed hostages and he brought forth dead bodies, and ohh boy, Trevor had never let him live that down.  
  
The only time he'd even missed a shot was in that cemetery in Ludendorff. The night his ten-year spiral of lies finally reached the breaking point. The night he and Trevor had stood over Bradley Snider's grave in the bitter cold, guns pointed at each other's heart.  
  
When the Chinese had showed up, Trevor'd thrown his gun at him and fled. Startled, he'd tried to shoot Trevor on his way out.  
  
He'd missed.  
  
And not because Trevor had been too fast for him, oh _no_. Nobody was too fast for him.  
  
It had simply been because Michael couldn't bring himself to lodge a bullet between Trevor's manic eyes.  
  
In essence, he had made himself miss. The reasoning behind this, he wasn't so sure about.  
  
Perhaps because he was weaker than he thought. Perhaps because Trevor was too valuable an asset to get rid of.  
  
But then there was the underlying truth of the matter, truth that stemmed from those rough nights in dirty motel rooms tangled together in bed, nights when they'd shared a connection more intimate than even best friends or self-proclaimed 'bros'.  
  
There was the underlying truth that maybe he was little bit–in the most _fucked up_ sense of the idea–in love with Trevor.  
  
In love with his unstable mind, in love with his unbridled "fuck you all" attitude, in love with his rough face and devilish smirk, his methloving ass, and just fucking in love with him.  
  
It was disgusting. He hated himself for it.  
  
It was beautiful. He was almost proud of himself for it.  
  
It was black and white. No grays. Their relationship had never been in the grays.  
  
Gray was too kind.  
  
Gray left things to the imagination; when it came to the two of them, the truth was painfully exposed.  
  
If everything they had between them had fallen under gray, he would've shot Trevor then and there.  
  
He would shoot Trevor now.  
  
"Fucking do it, Mikey!"  
  
Michael gritted his teeth. His finger twitched on the trigger.  
  
"I know you fucking want to," continued to goad Trevor, spreading his arms wide in welcome. He was unarmed. He'd thrown his gun to the side a few moments prior, in a twisted act of provocation. Michael _hated_ him.  
  
"Fuck. You."  
  
"There's a time and place for everything, you lazy asshole!"  
  
"I will fucking shoot you if you don't shut the fuck up!"  
  
"Mandy needed to know. You act like you didn't want her to."  
  
"She fucking left me, you prick!" Michael snapped back, his nose flaring, teeth bared. "After I just got them back!"  
  
"You don't need them, Mikey. They're assholes, all of them. But me, well fuck, I stuck by you even after you fucking sold me out to the FIB!"  
  
"Didn't stick by me when the Chinese bastards came by, didn't you, you piece of shit?"  
  
"You deserved that," hollowly replied Trevor, shaking his head. He took a few steps forward, seemingly uncaring that Michael had a pistol aimed at his face. "C'mon, Mikey. It'll just be you and me again! Like old times."  
  
"You don't understand, do you? Amanda is my fucking wife. I have two kids. I love them more than anything, Trevor." Michael took a deep breath, his hands steady on the gun. He stared straight into Trevor's eyes. "I love them more than  I love you."  
  
What happened next lasted only a few seconds but seemed to stretch on for minutes. Trevor, after hearing his outburst, suddenly looked livid. His jaw clenched, his eyes flashed with pure anger. Furious and irrational, he lunged forward and Michael...  
  
Michael reflexively pulled the trigger.  
  
Trevor was down in a second, groaning. Blood was already soaking his shirt, the white color of the tee making more visible the red spreading from the fresh bullet wound on his left side, just below his ribs.  
  
Dropping the gun to the floor, Michael practically slid across the carpet to get to his wounded friend. He was at Trevor's side in an instant, blue eyes swimming with guilt and fear.  
  
" _Fuck_ ," Michael breathed, ripping his gray suit jacket off and balling it up. He nervously pressed the article against Trevor's wound, earning him a pained moan from the other man.  
Well, he supposed all their experiences nursing each other to health after a sketchy showdown with the police back in North Yankton finally had their uses. Thank God he'd treated Trevor for bullet wounds before.  
  
Though he'd never treated Trevor for bullet wound that he had caused...  
  
Michael shuddered.  
  
"You fucker," Trevor hissed, eyeing him distastefully. Michael couldn't bring himself to look at the blood now marking his living room floor with crimson. He grabbed one of Trevor's hand and pressed it to the now-drenched jacket.  
  
"Hold it," he muttered, rising to his feet. Trevor glared at him as he walked away and made a beeline for the kitchen. Looking in the bottom cupboards, he found an unused First Aid kit. He kept the necessary materials for gun-induced wounds just for this reason, though he honestly never thought he would ever need to use them.  
  
"Oh, and here I thought you were gonna let me bleed out, sugartits. But then, that'd ruin your fucking polished floors, wouldn't it?"  
  
"Shut the fuck up, Trevor," sighed Michael tiredly, running a hand through his hair. He looked haggard, with his dark locks now sticking up and his face pale. He hadn't felt this stressed in a long time, though he did his best to keep himself under wraps. It didn't help that Trevor was now just taunting him, calling him every form of coward he could think of. Michael tried to ignore the harsh insults as best he could while he prepared the necessary materials to clean up the wound with.  
  
"–always a fucking pussy. Can't even shoot an unmoving target right in fucking front of you without fucking up–"  
  
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
"–can't even get his shit together just because his whore of a wife and fuckup children left him–"  
  
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" roared Michael before he could help himself. Kicking the kit to the side, he shoved his palm against Trevor's throat and pushed down. Trevor tried to swat him away, but Michael grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the side of his head. Trevor's other hand was helplessly still holding Michael's jacket against the wound.  
  
Meanwhile, Michael was beside himself, drowning with guilt, panic, and rage. "Listen to me, you ugly son of a bitch. I am _done_ with your bullshit. You come into my home and make a fool of me in front of my family. You show that disgusting video to my wife of–of us, doing the un-fucking-speakable! I spent weeks after weeks trying to get them back, only to have your sorry ass ruin it all! You practically beg me to shoot you and when I do, you have the audacity to bitch at me for what you had coming to you, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"  
  
Michael pressed the heel of his palm farther up Trevor's throat. He pushed until Trevor's gagged, brown eyes wide in surprise.  
  
Finally Michael let up. He withdrew his hand and stared at it. Then he looked to Trevor, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. Feeling the guilt seep in ten times worse than before, Michael reached for the kit and fished out some strong painkillers.  


* * *

  
Trevor remained oddly silent while Michael dressed his wound. He never made a noise, even when the needle was introduced. No...he just laid there, quietly observing Michael, who at least had the decency to look ashamed of his actions.  
  
Michael worked quickly, a bit surprised that he remembered how to do this old song and dance even after almost a decade. He was grateful that Trevor complied whenever he needed him to turn a certain way; at least they didn't have to bicker.  
  
Finally, the wound was sealed. It was lucky that the bullet just grazed Trevor instead of actually getting lodged into his rib. The majority of Trevor's stomach was wrapped in gauze, to keep the bandages in place. His bloody shirt, alongside with Michael's $500 jacket, was thrown off to the side.  
  
"Well...there you go, T."  
  
Trevor said nothing, his dark eyes never leaving Michael's pale face.  
  
He really fucked up this time, Michael knew. Trevor was a grade-A asshole, but he didn't deserve to get yelled at and have his throat crushed after sustaining a bullet wound to the side of his body. Michael was beside himself with worry for his friend, but he wouldn't let that show. Instead, he coaxed Trevor to a sitting position and wrapped an arm around him, on his non-injured side.  
  
"Hey, Trev," he began gently, offering Trevor an amiable smile. But Trevor still had that neutral look on his face and didn't even seem to have heard him. Regardless, Michael tried some more. "C'mon, let's go upstairs. You need to lie down on a bed."  
  
Trevor refused to reply, but nonetheless allowed Michael to help him up. They moved slowly towards Michael's room, even though they were both aware Trevor could probably handle jumping off buildings at that point. The stairs were a bitch, but other than that, they got to the room in one piece. Michael immediately helped Trevor ease onto the bed, his hands carefully guiding him in place.  
  
"Can I get you anything?" Michael inquired in what he hoped was a soothing voice. Without thinking about it, he reached out and placed a hand against Trevor's cheek. "T? You okay?"  
  
Trevor was a man of many words and loud opinions. But even he knew that his actions were louder (and more inappropriate) than anything he could ever say.  
  
So, when Michael turned to him, expectantly waiting for a reply, he decided to fuck with words and grabbed Michael's collar instead. He yanked the startled man down until they were nose to nose and, with a wicked smirk, crushed their mouths together.  
  
Michael froze in panic for a split second before the familiar sensation of Trevor's chapped lips against him lulled him into a false sense of security. He inwardly sighed and crawled on top of Trevor, like a wolf about to devour its prey. Trevor grunted and tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth. Michael hissed and retaliated by forcing his tongue into Trevor's mouth, tracing the warm, moist walls.  
  
Trevor just about lost it. His hands came up to cup Michael's ass, fingers squeezing greedily. He bucked up and pulled Michael down, their hips meeting, the tents in both their pants touching in much-needed contact, before Trevor began desperately grinding against his bemused companion.  
  
Michael almost wanted to laugh; leave it to Trevor to get ridiculously horny after getting shot and almost bleeding to death.  
  
"You are a fucking psychopath," he proclaimed, never more certain of his assertion. Trevor huffed and gave his ass a good smack. Michael scowled and instinctively slapped Trevor across the face in return.  
  
The look he received from Trevor was an undeniably smitten one. " _I fucking love you_ ," he growled hotly, growing harder in his pants; Michael could most certainly feel it and found himself a bit flushed.  
  
"Pants down, dick out," ordered the Canadian with a manic grin on his lips. He fumbled with Michael's belt and worked to pop the button off the top of his pants. He was just about to unzip Michael's fly when the shorter man grabbed his wrists, stopping him.  
  
"No, T."  
  
Trevor didn't seem to hear him. In fact, Michael pinning him down only seemed to excite him even more. "My God, Mikey, I never thought I'd see you like this again."  
  
"Trevor–"  
  
"I mean when you shot me, that–fuck, that was fucking _hot_. You have no fucking idea how you looked pointing the gun–oh, jack me off right now–"  
  
"For fuck's sake, Trevor–"  
  
"Michael fucking Townley, back in fucking action! I knew the guy I've been jerking off to for two fucking decades was here all along–"  
  
"Trevor!"  
  
"We could use my blood as lube, oh sweet _Jesus_ –"  
  
"TREVOR! FUCKING LISTEN TO ME!"  
  
"Eh?"  
  
Michael took a deep breath. No, he told himself, he couldn't shoot Trevor twice today. As tempting as the prospect was...  
  
"T...no, not right now."  
  
Trevor scoffed. He didn't seem to believe him. "The fuck not?"  
  
"You were just bleeding on the floor of my fucking living room," Michael reasoned, his voice lowering into a soft whisper. "I don't...I don't need you opening that wound right now, alright?"  
  
"You're the fucking reason I was bleeding in the first place," snapped Trevor in response, glaring hatefully at Michael. When the heavier man shook his head, Trevor only sighed. "Fine. Fuck you. Stupid cunt."  
  
"Hey–" Michael began defensively, but was cut off when Trevor roughly pushed him away. He barely managed to avoid falling off the bed.  
  
That didn't seem to sit well with Trevor, oh no. He actually aimed a few good kicks in Michael's direction, until he finally did roll over the edge with a loud thud. By the time Michael got back to his feet, swearing under his breath, Trevor had already freed his raging hard on from its constraints and was working the length of it.  
  
"You're fucking kidding me..."  
  
"No, Mikey, I'm fucking not," Trevor snapped back, eyes shut in concentration. Michael didn't want to know which lucky soul he was visualizing tied up, but he had a good idea.  
  
It wasn't like this was the first time Trevor had jacked off in front of him, with his face in mind no doubt. There had definitely been days when Michael hadn't been in the mood to fuck and had to endure watching Trevor get his rocks off without helping him. He remembered rolling his eyes at Trevor's whines and flipping him off during those awkward moments. He had a habit of fucking with Trevor's needs back then.  
  
Right now, though, he couldn't bring himself to just watch Trevor. A part of him felt obliged to assist him because Michael had technically pulled the trigger and maybe almost killed him.  
  
Then there was the needy, guilty urge of his that just wanted him to fucking satisfy Trevor, stemming from the filthy pride he felt after successfully getting Trevor off. It was an urge he could never fully shake. He knew this because he'd spent years trying to deny it.  
  
Ah. He was such a wreck.  
  
Trevor had been easily ignoring Michael's thus far, going so far as to turn his back to him completely. It didn't really make sense since it definitely was Michael's face currently invading his thoughts.  
  
"Fuuuuck..." moaned Trevor, bucking desperately into his hand. He imagined Michael towering over him, pinning his wrists to his sides, dick ramming in and out of his abused hole. Dream Michael wrapped a hand around his weeping cock and tugged roughly, drawing a moan from his lips. Trevor saw the look of anger on Michael's face when he'd made a noise, and shuddered when he slapped him across the face in punishment. "Yeah, Mikey, just like that..."  
  
"Just like what?" breathed a familiar voice in his ear; Trevor groaned when he felt another hand enclose over his, gripping his twitching prick firmly. Michael pumped him expertly, the action pleasantly familiar to them both; he wouldn't be exaggerating if he said he'd done this at least a hundred times. He thumbed the head of Trevor's dick, eliciting a breathy "fuck" from the injured male. "What do you want, Trevor?"  
  
Trevor turned to him with a vulnerable expression on his face. Michael grinned knowingly and closed the distance between them.  


* * *

  
He didn't fuck Trevor that night. Oh, no. Michael wasn't going to risk something so careless.  
  
What they ended up doing resembled extreme foreplay. Point was, Trevor was fully satisfied and Michael definitely needed to change the sheets after this.  
  
Butt naked, Trevor cuddled up against him, face buried in the crook of his neck, snug in Michael's arms. Michael couldn't see if his eyes were shut, but the lack of snoring told him he wasn't the only one awake and brooding.  
  
He had shot Trevor today. Granted, it was an accident. But he had most certainly crossed a line.  
  
It didn't matter that Trevor had been into it.  
  
Didn't matter that Trevor had called it even after coming three times in Michael's mouth.  
  
Didn't matter that Trevor was still pressed flush against him, loyal and obedient no matter what Michael did to him.  
  
Like a lost puppy, Michael mused, absentmindedly stroking Trevor's back. A really sick lost puppy...  
  
"I'm sorry, Trevor..." he mumbled after a while, squeezing the other male gently.  
  
At first Trevor didn't respond. Michael would've understood, though his heart sunk at the thought that he'd be left to his own devices again, this time without Trevor. But suddenly the taller male propped himself up on his elbows and stared intimidatingly down at Michael.  
  
Then he began to laugh.  
  
And laugh.  
  
And fucking _laugh_.  
  
It wasn't a crazy type of laughter, either. He didn't sound manic, didn't sound like a villain from the movies.  
  
Trevor laughed like Michael had just told him the funniest joke in the world. He laughed like he'd seen the stupidest shit in existence.  
  
He laughed like he did back when they were robbing small convenience stores in the snowy hellhole that was North Yankton; when they'd hidden in cheap motel rooms and got drunk and fucked like they had no responsibilities besides each other. Michael had been happy; probably the happiest in his life.  
  
With just Trevor.  
  
Eventually he began to laugh, too. No reason, really, but he couldn't help himself. That only made Trevor laugh even harder and soon they were grabbing onto each other, the corners of their eyes wet as their chests heaved and they lost their breath laughing like this was the first time they'd ever done so. Everything seemed fucking hilarious, from the way Michael snorted every now and then to the way Trevor gasped for air. They laughed at Michael's poor taste in wall color ("You fucking colorblind, Mikey? It looks like dogshit fucked a pile of puke and had a kid!"), they laughed at the awkward painting of Amanda's face hanging high above their heads to the side ("I hope you can get a fucking refund!" "For the painting or Mandy?") They laughed at the blank television because wasn't there supposed to be something on?  
  
Eventually they stopped laughing, dissolving into small chuckles. Trevor grinned and pecked Michael's mouth without warning. It was so sudden and unusually comforting that Michael actually flushed.  
  
Trevor patted his stomach reassuringly at that, keeping his fat remarks to himself for fucking once.  
  
"It's all good, sugartits."


End file.
